Sheets, Spells, Scenes
by SadeLyrate
Summary: Collection of drableish oneshots containing naught but pleasure and ponderations on relationships in myriad ways because a rabid fluffbunny bit me. Updated sporadically.
1. Breath

Summary: Collection of drable-ish oneshots containing naught but pleasure in myriad ways because a rabid fluff-bunny bit me.

Warning (susceptible to change as the whim dictates): The tense may vary from piece to piece, as will the length and POV.   
Rated T because of depictions of love, relationships and their (after)effects. There won't probably be a detailed, overt fuck-fest of any stripe, size or shade, though.  
Not all 'chapters' may contain references to sex itself, but when they do, there's a relatively good likelihood for you to find indications of non-con, slash, wincest and kinks among others. Just as likely as plain, sweet heterosexual fluff. There is not likely to be any lack of pure, innocent, familial love, either.  
I think.  
Consider yourselves warned.

Feel free to inform me of typos and grammar, phrases. Or whatever else floats your boat. :)

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Breath**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

It's not a scream that draws him to the now and here, remains to haunt his heart.  
It's not a cry of anguish, either. Or a sudden movement, caught in the corner of his eye on a hunt.

It's a soft whisper, sighed in the dead of night, breath warm with bliss in the dusty twilight of a neon-dappled motel room.


	2. Alley

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_anonymous sex with questionable safety_

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Alley**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He doesn't _want_ to remember, but does so anyway because he knows he's had too many already, yet clearly not enough to drown all the harpies in his head. He dives into the feel of flesh, hungry mouth drawing in another's taste, longing to lose the loneliness, if only for a moment, if only as an illusion.

And, _God_, it feels _good_.

This, he'd forgotten. Tried to stifle every memory of how it feels to be touched without malignity, without intent to hurt, to sense a body so close to his own he could share its scent, bask in the living warmth of another human being. Tried to trample the urges into dust, turn his body into nothing but just another tool, something to snare his soul.  
Tried to survive with nothing but a quickie once in a while with Mrs Palm and her five daughters in a shower because he can't bring himself to use and discard people like dirty condoms. Because he wants to avoid the look he suspects he'd see on Dean's face afterwards, like the cat in the phrase.

But now there's alcohol enough, pain enough, depression enough to nod his consent to a pair of smiling lips, lusting eyes, eager hands. Enough of everything to seek respite in any form.

All of it rolls and roils inside him, the ache for release building within him with ease to crescendo as he lets it all pour out, lust's language simpler than anything spoken could ever be, until there's nothing but one perfect, blinding piece of heaven in the hell his life's become.


	3. Insomnia

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_het fluff_

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Insomnia**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

His fingers stroke down her side, the ribs underneath smooth skin, the dip of her waist, the contour of her hip, the expanse of her thigh. She sleeps, breath easy and even in the twilight of night, her scent so unlike smoke and oil. He watches, unable to sleep, hand gently splaying against her belly as he lays a kiss to the nape of her neck.

She twitches, presses back against him, his hand drifting higher to embrace her.

"...Sam?" She mutters, hardly even conscious.

"Shh, just sleep, Jess", he whispers back, nuzzling the cloud of champagne blonde hair.

She smiles, her hand rising to grip his before succumbing to sleep again.

_"Don't wake at night to watch her sleep"_, he muses, listening to her breathe, feeling her alive against his own body, lyrics of a song stuck in his head. _"You know that you will always lose..." _

_Never._

* * *

lyrics by The Cure, "Burn" 


	4. See

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_implied wincest  
Definitely one of the too-late-night drabbles..._

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
See**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Watching Dean is like watching the sea. The surface belies the depths.

Watching (_feeling_) Dean make love is like watching (_feeling_) the surf. Austere, encompassing, so easy to drown in.

Watching Dean fight is like watching a storm. Roll, recoil, liquid grace, swift strength.

Watching (_tasting_) Dean peak is like watching (_tasting_) the ocean. Salty, sweet, thirst unquenched.

Watching Dean playing the catspaw is like watching one caressing a shoal. Easy, light, charming.

Watching (_hearing_) Dean come is like watching (_hearing_) the waters roar. Primal, raw, true.

Watching Dean hurt is like watching the brine before storm. Threatening, frightening, turmoil hidden under too smooth a surface to believe.

Watching (_smelling_) Dean, spent, is like watching (_smelling_) the sun-warmed waters. Content, safe, ardent.

Watching Dean fall, hard, is like watching the whitecaps crash, blue and white black and red.


	5. Mercy

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_sort of het fluff_

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Mercy**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

The way he sees it, there is no mercy in memories.  
There is laughter, yes, and joy, peace and quiet, light and love and life...so very much before the flames.  
But never mercy.

Sometimes he dives into the recollections, calling forth all instances he can of her. Sometimes he relishes the remembrance of her skin's feel, taste, scent, feeds on the flashes of her hair's qualities, savours the souvenirs of her voice, the cadence of her giggle.  
Sometimes he takes long walks down the memory lane, sleep-scared or stress-strained, counts the miles and minutes...

Sometimes, he realizes that the swims are now shorter than before, that he no longer can grasp the details.  
Sometimes, he understands that without a living reminder, the minutiae of memories are lost, and the walks are but a stroll across the backyard, everything that she was now boiled down to nothing more but the very essence of her.

Someday, he will understand that that's a mercy in itself.


	6. Atlas

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Wincest is like a very, very bad habit: no matter what you do, you can't really kick it once you've acquired a taste for it. Heck, you don't even _want _to kick it...;)  
Besides, I thought it was time for some fluff.  
_

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Atlas**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

There is a tale to the trail his fingers travel.  
_Here_, a poltergeist and a greenhouse.  
_Here_, a late night and a brawl.  
_Here_, a tree and a dare...

It's a map no one else knows how to read; spread under his fingers, plains and ridges leaning into his touch.  
He follows the roads no one else knows how to tread; intersections familiar, every peak and nook his to explore.

He teases through the undergrowth, discovers paths four years old still leading true.  
He takes in the sights, drinks his fill, samples the pleasures offered and given.  
He curls up to sleep, the world in his arms, savouring the warmth of its embrace.


	7. Shower

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Crude, yes, but we must please the bunnies.  
And do anything to get back on the saddle trying to shrug off the damn flu...  
_

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Shower**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

He leans back, letting the feel of lips swallow him whole.

The rain falls on him hard and cold, long fingers sliding along his length, teasing. He bites his lip to hold in the soft cry as she does that thing she used to do, twirling her hand over his head, breath hot against his skin before she takes him back in, tongue undulating over the nerves.

The tiles are smooth and cool against his back, but he hardly notices them as she picks up the pace, working on him.  
_God_, he wants this, _needs_ this so much after so long.

He shuts out all but the sensations, the fingers stroking faster until he comes with a whimper, slumps under the shower.

He keeps his eyes closed, holds onto the fantasy a moment more, refuses the reality, the fact that he's alone.


	8. Shadowy

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_wincest  
I blame all the hot and heavy, fast and furious slash-fics I read while suffering my yearly flu for this. 'Sides, the boys need some angst-free lovin' once in a while...;)  
_

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Shadowy**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

They're both bone-weary and ash-tired, bodies battered as they stumble back to the short-lived safety of their motel room.

Fingers brush over buds of bruises, caress in search of cracked ribs, stroke stains off the skin. Arms assure with an embrace, lips alleviate with love, remains of adrenaline beg for an outlet.

It's unplanned, sweet and soft, slow and sapid, leaving them both in satisfaction slipping into sleep.


	9. Saturday

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_het fluff_

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Saturday**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

Spent and sated, he slumped down, her pulse drumming desire under his lips.  
For a moment, there was nothing but bliss, bodies breathing together, touches lazy.

He chuckled, felt her respond rather than heard it, kissed the ticklish spot under her earlobe.

"Should we get up before the sun sets?"

He drew himself up enough see the dirty look she threw him as she answered.

"Someplace you'd rather be, Sherlock?"

And what could one really say to that?

"No," he grinned back, "Not really."

_Nevermore._


	10. Phantasmagoria

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_Something curious that jumped up and down demanding to be let out to play while I'm otherwise occupied with Angsty!Sam of the early first season... _

_Warning: The tense is shot to hell. The italics denote thoughts.  
Spoilerific for 2nd season, sort of especially 2x02, 2x05, 2x06, 2x14.  
Sort of het _

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Phantasmagoria**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

She's imagined it, oh so many times, during that certain phase of her period, when her body's like a bunny, desperate for dick, just screaming _sexsexsex!_

They weren't the first men she'd included in her fantasies, probably wouldn't be the last, either. Though with most of the men she'd seen being referred to as 'Uncle This' and 'Uncle That', men as old as her father, if not older, really, the moment they walked in, something flipped inside her. Sure, there'd been the cute guys from school, the early teen fantasies with roses and pink fluffy things. There'd been her silly, infantile crushes on actors and singers. There'd been Gordon who, _hello?_, was simply so much more intriguing than any one of her pimple-faced generation. Ash didn't really turn on anything but the gross-switch in her head. Sort of like a gazillion of the hunters that entered the Roadhouse, really.

And Rick.  
With him, though, she didn't need to fall back on whatever her mind made up. The reality was so much more exciting if only because she couldn't really control any of it.  
After that sort of died out, her invisible friends remained few, the easily-available recollections of his touch, the thrill of kissing with her Mom just around the corner, feeling him press against her in a way that struck the chord of _Yes!_ loud and clear satisfying her for a good while.

But when the brothers walked in, she had to bite her lip to stay focused, not drink in every detail of how the shirt hugged the muscles. Remind herself that fantasies were one thing and reality something completely different, and with the hunters, one could never know for sure.

Still, that night, her pillow devoured her panting breaths as she imagined the strong arms around her, full lips on her breasts, knowing fingers between her legs.

Dean she fell for, hard, _I mean, have you seen him?_, but it took a while for Sam to step up onto the stage. When she first saw him, bruises stained his skin, he carried himself like a dog that's been kicked one time too many.  
Absolutely nothing to lust after.

The second time, though, he walked in following Dean, and she got a good look at him, swift and strong and determined. Long fingers, tapping on the table, curling around a glass or a bottle, stretched.

Then it turned out there was so much more to John's youngest than met the eye. That he was part of a demon's plan.

Certainly a turn off if she ever saw one.

That was why she was surprised to find her mind conjuring forth ideas about how that tall, lean body would feel like, pressed up against hers, those long, dexterous fingers dancing over her nerves, making her body sing. The gentle giant that was all Sam Winchester dwarfing her, thoughts wild with wonder at his size. It felt kind of illicit, considering what she was feeling for his brother. That though seemed to merely add to the thrill.

Curiously enough, no matter how mad she got at John, his boys, when the months meandered on, she still found herself whimpering under the burn of hazel eyes, her mind spinning scenes any piece of erotica would have been proud of.

So when the cold reality of Sam slamming her against the bar sets in, that long body hard and forceful, brimful of danger and none of the gentleness, some sick part of her knows she's only getting what she's been begging for.


	11. Sub Rosa

Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.

_tag, sort of, to 2x17, Heart  
hug-fic  
...in a shower. And can any tag to this episode avoid the angst?_

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**SHEETS, SPELLS, SCENES  
Sub Rosa**  
_by Sade Lyrate_

They return to the hotel in silence, without another look back.

Another corpse, another monster dead, another memory to haunt him.

Dean begins packing their stuff instantly; ever-practical, ever-efficient. Even with everything.

Her touch lingers on his skin; her smell, her taste, her look. He hasn't even changed clothes afterwards and her essence clings to him like a stigma.

Dean's head snaps up from the guns as Sam rises from the bed, crawls out of the clothes on his way to the bathroom, wishes the water will wash away his wickedness.

Over the susurrus of the shower, he hears the soft -_click_- of the door, the steps on the tiles, the clink of the curtain.  
He feels the brush of cool air, the , the warm arms wrapping around his waist, a plea in the pull. Steadfast strength at his back, the steady, _alive_ thumps of a heart, the skim of stubble on his skin.

He can't do it. Can't control something this big, can't carry a burden like this, can't face the all-devouring abyss his life's become.  
Can't stop his own fall. Can't prevent Dean going down with him, no matter what.

_I'm here_, assures the heavy head, the warm breath against his neck.  
_I've got you_, murmurs the minute tightening of the arms.  
_No matter what_, promises the kiss on his shoulder.

He curls into the childhood comfort he's long outgrown, and lets go. Here, within the privacy of a bathroom never theirs, it's okay, it's allowed, he doesn't need to be in control, doesn't need to keep himself in check, doesn't need to hold back.

It never lasts, and it's never enough, but if it's all he can have, he'll take it.


End file.
